


live with me

by earlgreyson



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Harold Finch, Getting Together, Hurt John Reese, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Protective Harold Finch, Torture, Truth Serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-11-23 00:17:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20883041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreyson/pseuds/earlgreyson
Summary: "The summer heat had settled over New York weeks ago, and while crimes of passion had spiked with the temperature, premeditated attacks had dropped off while people took shelter and tried to conserve energy. There hadn’t been a number in days, something that caused Reese both to pace restlessly while trying to encourage Finch to take a break."It's supposed to be an easy day. No one counts on Reese being taken by a previous number's enemies.





	live with me

The summer heat had settled over New York weeks ago, and while crimes of passion had spiked with the temperature, premeditated attacks had dropped off while people took shelter and tried to conserve energy. There hadn’t been a number in days, something that caused Reese both to pace restlessly while trying to encourage Finch to take a break.

He hadn’t had much luck, the furthest he’d gotten was getting the man to take off his jacket and waistcoat. He’d also forced a sweating glass of iced green tea on him and pointedly watched until Harold rolled his eyes and took a sip. Reese then spent the afternoon pretending to focus on the latest updates on his covers while actually keeping an eye on Finch. He didn’t think his friend bought it, but he said nothing as he continued to type away at whatever he was working on.

There was a light flush to Harold’s face and his sleeves were carefully rolled to just above the elbow. Compared to his usual impeccable style, it was like he’d decided to work shirtless and Reese made sure to memorize the typically hidden parts of the man. Forearms with a light dusting of hair, the small freckle hidden just in the crook of his left elbow, the pale scars that lay on the top of his right arm. John struggled not to openly stare as he took in the nimble fingers connected to thin wrists, the way the muscles flexed and relaxed as he worked.

He certainly did not look at the small sliver of skin that peeked through the open top button of Harold’s shirt. He’d only popped the button an hour ago in silent acknowledgement of the sweltering dead air in the library. John had almost choked on his water at the action, only years of training kept him from coughing.

It was well past noon and getting into the evening when Reese decided he needed to stretch his legs. The reports were tucked neatly into a bookcase behind Harold and he turned to look for Bear’s leash. It lay next to the keyboard at Finch’s desk and Reese let a hand rest on the back of the man’s chair as he leaned forward to take it. He wanted to lean just a little further, let his nose rest in Harold’s hair for a second and let himself drown in the familiar scent. John didn’t allow himself to, instead whistled to Bear and crouched down to click the leash on.

“It’s close to dinner time, I think I’m going to go pick something up. What would you like? Vietnamese sounds good to me,” he asked. Harold gave an agreeing sound, absorbed in his work. Reese smiled to himself as he headed out with a promise to return soon.

Outside, the air moved as slow as an old man in traffic and the man couldn’t help but think of the cool breeze coming off glaciers in Alaska the last time he’d been in Denali. Finch would love the clear blue waters, Reese could imagine him insisting on an afternoon spent near Wonder Lake, making up stories about the people who wandered by.

John smiled at the image as he turned the corner. Bear suddenly barked as lights exploded in front of his eyes and darkness instantly took him over.

Cold cement on his cheek was the first thing that he noticed as Reese slowly clawed his way back to consciousness. Zip ties bound his wrists behind him, more attached them to his belt so he couldn’t break them. A chain attached to his left ankle was probably connected to the floor or the wall behind him. Reese struggled to sit up and took stock of his situation.

It was dark wherever he was, and quiet. No cracks of light to indicate a window or door, no noise to help pinpoint his location. So he was either in a soundproof room, a basement, or no longer in the city. Without knowing how long he’d been out he couldn’t answer that question for sure.

Physically he’d been worse, but he’d also been a hell of a lot better. His head ached from where he’d been hit and his muscles had gone tense with the restraints. Someone had taken his shoes and socks, leaving him with cold feet. John leaned against the wall behind him and tried to collect his thoughts.

There was no sign of Bear and he hoped that the dog had gotten away. He had no doubts Bear would have tried to stop whoever had jumped him, all he could do was send a silent hopeful thought to whoever might be listening that Harold had him now and he was okay.

Something metallic clicked on the wall opposite Reese and he had to squint at the bright light that spilled in from the now open door. Two men in ski masks came in as a light flickered on in the ceiling. The door slid closed behind them.

If John was a betting man he would have said this was likely not the entirety of the crew. While their all black attire was a little theatrical, the men held themselves with an easy confidence. Professionals, but new professionals. They had training, but he could see the green in their tense postures and the way they tried to stare him down.

One of the men leaned forward in front of Reese, hands clasped behind him. “You’re going to tell us where you got your information. How did you know about the contract on Devon Clark?”

So that was this was about. Devon Clark had been their last number. An aspiring artist, Devon had no idea their birth mother had tracked them down and left a vast majority of her wealth to them. They’d had even less of an idea that their half-brother was not at all pleased with that and had arranged for Devon to be quietly eliminated. John had stopped the hitman who had been sent with minimal issue, a deep slash across his chest the only real injury.

The bound man said nothing as his captors attempted to intimidate him. Arms crossed, menace thrown over their looming forms. Reese could have laughed at the drama of it all, instead he looked up at the two and let the promise of violence settle in his eyes.

“If you hurt my dog, gentlemen, my source is going to be the last thing you worry about,” he finally said, tone casual as a sunny day. The men glanced at each other before the one that had spoken stood and turned back towards the door. It opened again and a masked guard handed him a small black case. The man turned back and smiled as he lifted the lid. Inside was a neat row of syringes.

“Well I guess we get to do this the fun way then,” he said as easily as one might inquire about the time. The man stepped forward into Reese’s space and pulled a long knife, casually cutting away John’s jacket and shirt. He suppressed a shiver at the sudden cold on his naked chest but remained silent.

“This is amobarbital with a little something special of my own. You’ll want to tell me everything, but it won’t be a joyride for you,” his captor explained as he uncapped the syringe. “So I’ll ask just one more time: _where do you get your information?”_

Reese looked over the two men appraisingly and found them wanting. Average height, average build, average intelligence in their eyes. They had no idea who they had in their clutches, no idea of what he had endured. Nothing these average men could do would ever work and they had no idea.

After a long moment he looked the leader dead in the eye and leaned forward with steel in his face.

“I’ve never been much of a talker.”

The man in front of him shrugged and took John’s arm, finding a vein and injecting smoothly. Where the drug entered his body _ burned_, fire spread as the drug began to wind its way through his body. He gritted his teeth and said nothing, letting his mind fall back within itself like he’d been trained. If you cannot remove your body, don’t let them reach your mind.

Questions were asked of him and John said nothing. He silently snarled as the knife sliced across his ribs and blood began to fall. He could feel the amobarbital starting to take effect. The room didn’t quite spin as drunkenly swayed before his eyes, colorful ripples like heat waves dancing through the air. His head felt stuffed with cotton, tongue dry and clung to the roof of his mouth.

As the drug began to kick in sparks of color flashed before his eyes as cut after cut dragged along his torso, his arms, his back. They’d taken his phone and earwig when he’d been captured, but John could still hear Finch in his ear.

_“What are you going to do, John?”_ he could feel the presence of the hallucination form behind his shoulder as his captor sliced deep into Reese’s palms. He didn’t respond though the words bubbled in his throat. John bit his tongue until he tasted blood. Finch continued to talk; conversations they’d had in the past twining into things he wished could be said.

He clung to that voice like driftwood, letting it float him along as he let Harold lead him through the halls of his psyche into somewhere quiet.

Eventually, the world went dark and still.

An eternity had passed since John had first awoken, several rounds of injections and thin cuts that had been liberally coated in some kind of pepper water that left him burning inside and out. His hands screamed from where they’d been cut and stomped on, John he was pretty sure at least one finger was broken. Probably a rib as well.

As bad as his body felt, his head screamed worse. Pressure thrummed beneath his skull and he couldn’t find a spot for his eyes to focus on. He lay on his side with his eyes closed as he tried to find stability. There was a speaker somewhere in the ceiling and it occasionally emitted a high-pitched screech to drag him awake when the exhaustion pulled him under. Reese focused on his breathing: in through the nose, out through clenched teeth. He hadn’t broken.

He was alone in the room and he also wasn’t. The mercenaries had filed out some time ago and left him in the dark again. Leaning against the door facing John though was a faded vision of Kara. She looked like a faded photo—a snapshot of the way she’d been when they’d been standing on a roof in China and both were moments from meeting their bullets.

“God, I knew that you were a boy scout but this is ridiculous,” she chuckled, studying her nails and idly scraping beneath them with a knife. “You should have given him up _ ages _ ago. There’s no benefit to protecting him.”

John didn’t want to engage with the ghosts of his past, he’d never admit he cried as Jess had knelt in front of him listing all the ways he’d screwed up in that gentle voice he’d missed so much. But Kara wouldn’t stop talking and he was getting tired of her voice.

“You never were one for loyalty, Kara,” he mumbled and saw her face instantly cloud over with rage.

“You know what loyalty is, John? Loyalty is walking around with a gun in your hand and giving it to the first person with a bullet. Loyalty gets you killed, loyalty only protects the person you’re loyal to.”

John laughed; a choked, wheezing sound that rustled in his lungs and sent him coughing painfully.

“That’s what loyalty means: believing in someone better than yourself and knowing that they are worth dying for.”

Kara scoffed as she got in his face. “No one is worth dying for.”

“Guess you’ve never been in love.” Reese paused. “Would have been good for you, Kara, to believe in something other than yourself. Shame you couldn’t see past your own nose.”

As in life, Kara reacted explosively. She was only a figment of his imagination, but he’d spent years with her and had known her well, his mind supplied the screaming animosity he’d sensed in her and ratcheted it up to eleven. Reese tuned her out as her hatred tried to reach him in a way she no longer could physically. Exhaustion quickly took advantage and soon he was falling away again.

John’s thoughts drifted away from the freezing room to wander through his memories.

He jumped aimlessly through time; the Midwest flowed into Turkey, New York led him to London, the distant past to the present and back again. Carter flashed Jess, skipped to Leila and froze on a cold evening in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge. John could feel the brisk breeze coming off the water, could smell the snow in the air.

Finch stood before him, face impassive as he looked Reese over.

“What do I need?” John heard himself ask. Something passed over Finch’s eyes that he couldn’t place. Understanding lingered there as well.

_“You need a purpose.”_

Harold melted away as the scene shifted. Still cold, Reese’s vision faded in and out. The only thing keeping him upright was the railing as he stumbled down the stairs. One hand pressed against the freely bleeding gunshot in his side, his leg sported another well aimed hit. It was over and he was a little surprised to find that—as much as he had been seeking death, chasing it like a lover around the world—there was a part of him that couldn’t let go quite yet.

As John struggled forward, Finch’s talking in his ear grounded him. He couldn’t focus entirely on what the man was saying, but when he paused Reese knew he had to do _ something _.

“I wanted to say thank you, Harold, for giving me a second chance,” he murmured, voice rough with pain and exhaustion.

“It’s not over, John,” Finch swore and he could hear the note of panic hidden there, “I’m close, just get to the ground floor.”

If the blood loss hadn’t left him shivering the thought of Harold getting caught—getting _ killed _because of him—would have frozen John solid.

“No, you stay away,” he ordered, knowing it would do no good. “Don’t even risk it.”

Reese didn’t hear Harold’s response as ringing filled his ears. Inky blackness took him away and led him deeper into himself. John followed it.

It had been some time since he’d been left gasping in the dark. Blood leaked sluggishly from too many wounds and Reese’s stomach protested any movement. He leaned carefully against the concrete wall and shivered from the cold and the drugs coursing through his system. He was freezing but he burned, an itch had settled underneath his skin that made him want to claw it off, if only his hands had been free.

“You do not look well, Mr. Reese.” An over-saturated version of Finch materialized in John’s peripheral and automatically turned towards that voice. At least it wasn’t Kara again—or god forbid, _ Jess_—pouring salt into the wounds his mind had provided that left him feeling emotionally and physically empty.

“I don’t know, Harold, I feel spry as a spring day,” he snarked back. John knew he wasn’t really talking to Finch, but the man’s presence loomed so large in his mind that the pain dulled just a hair. Free to observe in a way he wouldn’t—couldn’t—do in the real world, Reese let himself stare at the hallucination.

Finch was wearing John’s favorite suit; warm brown tweed shot through with hints of gold and red that shimmered in the drug haze. The yellow tie shot through with thin blue checks that John had found in a second hand store that perfectly drew the flecks of honey and stormy water that hid in Finch’s brilliant green eyes. His employer frowned.

“I wish you would let me help you, John,” the image murmured sadly. John wanted to reach out to him, but quietly sighed instead.

“I know. I know you do.” He sounded broken to his own ears and was, for once, fiercely glad that Harold was not actually there. He didn’t want him to risk it, didn’t want to be the thing that got a great man killed. “I hope you don’t come. I’m not worth it, Harold.”

“Few things are, Mr. Reese,” imaginary Finch replied casually as he pulled his pocket square from his breast pocket and meticulously cleaned his glasses. The words cut John to the core. He leaned forward to rest his head on his bent knees as the room began to spiral out around him. He tried to focus on his breathing but he felt so sick and he could feel unconsciousness barreling towards him.

“I love you,” he whispered to himself. “Please don’t come.”

As black waves broke over him and dragged John down, Harold’s tinny voice slipped through.

“I love you, John. Wait for me, I’m coming for you.”

Sleep must have come for him eventually because it wasn’t the speaker that sent him lurching upright. It was a sudden muffled _ boom _ that shook the room. Every part of John’s body hurt but he ignored it as he closed his eyes and strained to hear any hint of what was happening. His head felt stuffed with cotton and he couldn’t focus. Another distant explosion and the staccato burst of automatic gunfire succeeded it. Reese jumped as the speaker above him crackled to life.

“You have made a grave error in taking someone who does not belong to you,” Finch bit out and John could hear the rage underneath it, could almost see the ice in his eyes staring at him in the dark. Unable to break free, John felt fear in his veins. _ No, _ he thought, _ he should have let me go. _ Another round of gunfire—closer this time—had him staring into the dark towards it.

“You have taken him and if he is not well when I find him—and I will—you will come to know quite soon that _ he’s _ not the one you should have been worried about,” Harold continued and Reese struggled to sit up. His hands were still bound behind him and the room swam in his vision; if someone came in to use him against Finch he wouldn’t be able to fight them off. But he wouldn’t go down without a struggle and he braced himself for what would happen next.

Sure enough, the door flew open as one of the masked men ran in with a gun pointed at John. Sleeve ripped off at the elbow and blood poured from several deep gouges—something had grabbed his arm and shredded it. John smiled, at least Bear was alright.

“On your knees!” the wounded man yelled at him, shoving the gun into Reese’s chest. Slowly and with a feral grin tucked into the corners of his mouth, he knelt. His kidnapper circled behind him, putting Reese between him and the door. The gun was pushed against the back of his head and he kept his gaze focused on the long hall he could now see. Smoke filtered just below the ceiling and was getting thicker. Now John could clearly hear the sounds of a fight, guns rapidly firing and screams echoed, getting closer.

“You guys have no idea what you stepped in, do you?” he asked fuzzily indifferent, not turning.

“Shut the _ fuck _up!” The man’s voice had gone shrill and he hit John’s head with the butt of the gun. Sparks flooded his vision but he didn’t go down. Through the ringing in his ears Reese heard Bear’s snarl and he blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision.

Three people turned the corner at the end of the hall and strode towards him. Shaw, rifle in hand, stood on the far right with Fusco on the far left with a shotgun. Between them was Harold and Bear, an avenging angel with a face full of grim ferocity.

“Stop or I’ll—” the masked man started, but was cut off as Shaw easily cut him down. Reese didn’t move as Harold broke away and limped quickly to him. Bear beat him by a second and licked at John’s face anxiously.

“Are you—” Finch started as he fell awkwardly to his knees before John as Fusco came around and swiftly cut his bonds. As soon as his hands were free he clumsily grabbed Harold, one grasped the smaller man’s chin while the other rested on his shoulder. No major injuries, a couple of small scratches on Finch’s cheek that left Reese seeing red.

The towering fury was still there in Harold’s face, it grew as he took in the track marks on John’s exposed forearm, the amount of dried blood that covered the man, and his dilated, unfocused eyes. 

“I saw you,” he told his friend quietly, voice slurred slightly. “I didn’t tell them anything.” It was suddenly urgent that Finch knew that, that his secrets were safe, that John had been weak but hadn’t given in. He tried to stand

_“Shh,” _Harold soothed as Shaw made quick work of the chain on his ankle. “It’s going to be okay, Mr. Reese.” He kept his voice low, not from fear of being overheard but fear of exploding. Every inch of the reclusive billionaire threatened extreme prejudice against anyone who might cross him. John went with Shaw as she hauled him up, slipped under one shoulder and didn’t let go of Finch once. He focused on putting one unsteady foot in front of the other.

“How long?”

Shaw was the one to reply as she tugged him around a corner. “A week. Finch only found where they took you last night.”

As they left the room and made their way through the labyrinthine building, she almost whispered, “Remind me not to cross the boss man, he looked like he was going to murder _ everyone _when Bear came back without you.”

Reese felt a response trying to slip from him and he turned his head to push his lips into his bare shoulder, felt the words sink muffled into his skin. He tried to keep moving forward with one hand on Finch’s shoulder. It grounded him, made it feel less that he was on a boat in a hurricane. He needed to feel that Finch was there, in front of him, unharmed. Harold hadn’t shrugged it off, maybe it was the same for him too.

It took them little time to backtrack through the building and make their way outside. John had seen a few bodies, more than he had expected from his limited experience in the cell. He remained silent as he was bundled with Bear into the back seat of a small sedan and Harold took the driver’s seat. Lionel waved and Shaw gave a half-assed salute as they pulled away. The ride was silent except for Bear’s panting. The dog pressed close to Reese and rested his head in his lap. He gave the dog a good scratch behind the ear and let his eyes close.

He was asleep between one breath and the next.

Reese knew he was dreaming as he walked along Bushwick, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat in the brisk air. The empty streets were a good indicator, but the carefree smile on Finch’s face was one he’d never seen. It was like staring into the sun so he kept peeking from the corner of his eye. He looked _ happy_, Bear trotting along ahead of them and their hands occasionally brushing. Somewhere a bird sang out and in the distance John could hear the sounds of children laughing.

Harold asked him something he didn’t hear and he turned towards the man. It must not have required an answer, or it was written on his face, because Finch went from smiling to _ beaming _ as he took hold of John’s tie and pulled him down to—

The car door opening woke John when they pulled up to—he wasn’t sure. A row of brownstones on one side of the road, small businesses on the other. The streetlights were painfully bright on his sensitive eyes and he found himself squinting against them. Trying to collect himself, Reese slid out of the car with Bear at his heels. Finch slipped under his arm to lend what support he could and slowly they made their way across the street to a small florist shop. A plain black door with no identifying features opened into a short hall and a small elevator. Harold punched in a code and the elevator jerked upwards.

Reese leaned against the wall and hated how his stomach lurched at the movement, shoved the nausea down as best he could. After a moment the doors opened into a darkened room. The overhead lights came dimly on and he could see it wasn’t a massive space, but warm oak bookshelves and full length windows framed with dark blue curtains made the place feel lived in. He turned back towards Finch a little incredulously.

“This isn’t a safe house,” understanding dawned on him, “this is your _ home_.”

Harold closed the door and nodded, his back to Reese, before motioning for the man to sit as he turned to move around the apartment. From a kitchen drawer came a first aid kit, somewhere around the corner from the chair John had flopped into came a clean suit still in the dry cleaning bag. Finch remained silent as he brought them over then went to the kitchen, returned with a glass of ice water he pressed into John’s hands. Only when he had—under watchful eyes—taken a long sip did Harold pull a chair over and begin to unpack the first aid kit.

Out came antiseptic wipes, needle and thread, gauze, and tape. He methodically laid each item neatly on the side table to the right of Reese. A sigh escaped him and he finally looked John in the eye for the first time since he’d been rescued.

“I am sorry, Mr. Reese. I did not look further into the mercenaries that had come after Devon and it put you in danger.” There was regret tinged still with anger in Harold’s voice, fear hiding behind sorrow in a desperate bid to not be seen. But John heard it and unconsciously reached out, letting his battered hand rest on Harold’s knee. They were so close, mere centimeters between the chairs. John could lean over. It wouldn’t take much.

“It wasn’t your fault, they shouldn’t have been able to get the drop on me but I wasn’t paying attention. Lesson learned,” he softly tried to allay the worries that creased his friend’s brow. Harold shot him a look that said he knew exactly what Reese was doing and he didn’t believe it, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he motioned for John to remove his shirt as he grabbed the antiseptic.

A few minutes later, as sore as he was it had taken some time, John was sitting there in his just his pants and shoes as Finch went to work patching him up. There had been an upset furrow between his eyebrows since he’d gotten to Reese, it only grew deeper as he looked over the damage done to the man. Harold apologized when a particularly deep gash caused him to hiss.

“It’s okay, at least this fades quickly.” He’d gone for assuring, but everything he said seemed to upset Finch more.

“What did they do to you?” The smaller man asked after a long, painful moment. Reese shrugged and winced at the movement as it pulled a scabbed cut on his shoulder.

“Amobarbital with some kind of hallucinogen and a terrible impression of _ Death of A Thousand Cuts_. I liked that shirt,” he pouted and hated that he couldn’t quite control his face yet. Or his mouth.

Harold paused in his work and looked up at John, eyes sad as he reached out to run his thumb over John’s forearm.

“I’ll get you a new one,” he replied, and Reese could see agony in Harold’s tense frame. He looked like anything would set him off. 

“You always come for me. You’re the only person who ever has.” Though the drugs had mostly faded from his system, John still had the compulsion to talk, to explain. 

“You’re the reason I’m still here, you’ve given me so much that I can never repay.” John couldn’t stop the words from coming, closed his eyes and pressed their joined hands to his forehead. “Just let me have this for a moment.”

A small sound caught in Harold’s throat and Reese felt the man’s free hand hesitantly cradle his cheek. Involuntarily he turned into it and breathed in the scent of alcohol, sweat, and the underlying tang of metal that somehow always seemed to cling to Finch.

_“John—”_ his voice cracked and he cleared his throat, “John, please look at me.”

Unable to disobey him, John opened his eyes and went to let go of his hand. Instantly Finch had grabbed it again, expression lost and searching.

“I heard you,” the man started, clutched at John’s hand like it was the only thing that kept him from flying away. Fine tremors raced through tense muscles as Reese processed. He had said many things, and just what he couldn’t remember.

“I heard you as they tortured you and I couldn’t _ stop _ it, I knew if I tried before we were close that I would get you killed.” His eyes squeezed shut briefly before fixating on the floor.

Some hazy part of John’s memory clicked awake, a tinny voice fading into white noise. A thread of hope filtering through a vitriolic rant. John had said something, and Finch _ had really responded_.

“They were asking you all these questions and you just kept saying, _‘you can’t have him’._ When they finally left you and you were still repeating ‘_you can’t have him’._

“Then I heard you talking to Kara and—” Harold stopped suddenly as he seemed to try to gain some control over himself. The man took a deep breath before continuing. “If I could kill her again I would, for what she did to you. You are worth so much more than a slow death in a dark place. Your loyalty is not given without great trust and is something to be protected—”

John couldn’t stop himself as he surged forward and kissed Harold. All thoughts left the injured man, all except _ finally. _

Reese took every inch that was given to him, tested how far he could go. He pushed into Harold’s mouth and groaned as he tasted every part he could reach. At least he was not the only eager participant because Harold gave as good as he got. They fought not for dominance, but for exposure. Hands flew as they strove to touch as much of each other as possible. Frustrated at the little distance that remained, John grabbed Harold’s arms and gently hauled him into his lap.

After a long moment they pulled apart to gasp for breath. Reese smiled at the delicate flush of Finch’s cheekbones, the wild mess of his hair that couldn’t be tamed on a good day, the way he rested his hands on John’s shoulders as he breathed in time.

“There is _ nothing _that I would not give to you, John,” Harold said slowly, “Nothing that I would not give for you.”

Reese tried to shake his head, to deny that this man owed him nothing. To say there was nothing that he needed except to stay at Harold’s side until death came and John had to greet her. But at the first disbelieving shift Finch’s hands slid from his shoulders to John’s neck, braced his jaw in a way that prevented him from moving. He could only look into the complicated eyes that he would follow to the ends of the earth.

“I _ heard _you, when you were alone, talking to me. I don’t know what I said, but I heard you say you didn’t want me to come. I heard you say you love me.” Harold leaned forward to press a kiss to Reese’s forehead.

“_John, _ you must know, surely, that I will _ always _ come for you.”

The part of John that was no longer looking for the bottom of every bottle did know that, no matter what happened, he and Harold were a team. There was no separating them—no Harold _ or _ John, only Harold _ and _ John.

But the part of him that was still curled up on a dark corner with the baggage of all the people he’d ever let down _ knew _ that there was nothing. Nothing at all he could do to make the scales balance in his favor. He’d weighed his life in blood and the sheer volume of it would always mean he would drown before he would be saved. And that was what his actions had earned, and he had made peace with that long ago.

Finch must have seen a trace of that in his face because he wrapped his arms gently around John’s wounded frame and pulled him in as close as he could without opening his chest and dragging him inside. “I love you, beyond reason or comprehension. I learned what loyalty means from you. Do you know what I learned?”

John could remember Kara, could remember what she said, remembered less what he had. He shook his head and breathed in Harold’s scent from where his nose was pressed into the man’s shirt.

“When I first found you, before I approached you, I researched you. I took apart hundreds—if not thousands—of pages detailing your work. The Army said you were strong, critical, reacted intuitively, could follow orders but did things your own way.

“The CIA said you were dedicated, didn’t ask questions and did the job well, potentially volatile, but with...well they used the term _ careful management _ but what they meant was _ manipulation_, you would remain loyal to whoever held the reins.” John squeezed his eyes shut and quietly exhaled. He hadn’t looked at his own files in detail, but he had always known that he had been just a puppet.

Harold let his cheek rest on the top of John’s head, one hand cautiously running over his back in a soothing gesture. “They may have understood parts of you, Mr. Reese, but they certainly did not understand _ you_. Or what your loyalty meant.

“I’ll admit, before you came to work with me I didn’t completely understand either. It wasn’t until Agent Snow attempted to bring you in that I did. I heard him try the same old tactics, offering a clean slate for you to come home. He didn’t realize what home meant for you. I’m sorry it took so long for me to understand that as well.”

John was exhausted: physically, mentally, and emotionally. The only thing keeping him upright was Harold’s hands on his back and his words in John’s ear.

“What does it mean then?” he asked, throat dry and voice hoarse.

“You’ve never been attached to places, you move easily and don’t dwell on the locations you have left behind. For you, home is the same as loyalty: it is to _people _ and to _purpose_. You have to believe in what you do and the people you do it with. Though I know you don’t believe this, you are a good person, John. Your loyalty is not something to be wielded like a sword. It is something that must be protected and cherished for the gift it is.”

One short sob died in Reese’s throat. In any other moment, any other place, he would say nothing. Or he would deflect. But he felt too raw and exposed after a week of abuse hurled at him from inside and out to hide behind his walls. So he didn’t try, just clung to Harold like a drowning man and let it anchor him. Finch let him shakily breath in the quiet for a while, arms comforted and heart steady underneath John’s ear.

After some time, Harold gently pulled John back far enough to look at his face. Then wordlessly stood and tugged at him enough to get him standing. He led the wounded man to the bed and, once John was safely laying down, quickly limped through the apartment to turn out the lights. Reese watched, struggling to keep his eyes open but not wanting to fall asleep yet. It felt childish, like a five year old protesting bedtime.

But then Harold came back to him and crawled in next to him. It took very little encouragement for John to slide close and let Harold pull him close. He meant to fight what his body demanded, but even John could not deny his limits.

So safe and mostly sound, he fell asleep in Harold’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, feedback is eternally loved and super appreciated <3


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